


We ghosts, aflame

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Through dooms of love [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Celebrimbor in Gondolin, Daddy Issues, Distant cousincest, Forge Sex, M/M, Sailing the tiny ships, for everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Maeglin unlearns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We ghosts, aflame

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Inspired by alackofghost's incredible Maeglin/Tyelpe art ([nsfw](http://alackofghosts.tumblr.com/post/98271459927/im-yours-ghosts-and-all)).

Maeglin has taught himself not to grow too attached. 

Not to the city, bright and bustling – so bright it hurts his eyes, sometimes, and so full of people that it sets his teeth on edge – because even after all these years, it does not feel like home, and it does not feel like welcome. 

 _I do not need your chatter_ , he thinks, and finds refuge in the forge, where the shadows are warm and familiar, and his eyes soften in the darkness, and he breaths deeper in the blessed silence. The only sound is the ringing of his hammer and the cries of the steel as it bends, and for a while, that is enough. 

He does not grow fond of his mother’s people, who despite the honors his uncle bestows on him, look always at him as though he wore another’s face. 

He respects his uncle, though he does not love him. The color of Turgon’s eyes, the set of his chin – it is too close to that of his mother’s, too close to the stinging bite of his grief for her, so long buried, and so he replaces affection with respect, and stands at his uncle’s side with cool detachment. 

As for his fair cousin…he tries not to think too much of Idril. He does not trust the fire she lights in him, does not trust the ache that she sets deep in his chest. 

 _Do not let yourself be ruled_ , comes the whisper, and he knows it is his father’s. 

 _Unless it is by you?_  he thinks in reply, used to such internal conversations, and turns to his anvil. 

 _Do not grow attached, do not love, do not need_ , his mind whispers, incessantly, and he heeds it. 

Until his cousin – his other cousin, dark haired and dark skinned and adorned with gold – arrives. 

 _Do not grow attached_. 

But from the moment Celebrimbor’s eyes light on him, Maeglin wants nothing more than to follow. 

 _Do not need_. 

But he burns.

_Do not love._

But – 

Maeglin has always loved the peace of the forge, the comfort of the shadows. He has not known how much more he could love it with hot, yielding flesh beneath him, strong hands digging into his back, his hips, his buttocks. 

Maeglin has always loved silence, but he has found something he loves more – to shatter it. 

Celebrimbor is _loud._

Maeglin has always loved the moment when the steel yields beneath his hands, transformed, giving way to his desire. 

But so much more beautiful is the moment when that powerful body opens up for him, when the steady control that Celebrimbor exudes to all others gives way to needy, panting breaths, that low, smoked-glass voice breaking on a plea. 

For years, Maeglin was taught silence and control. In a week with Celebrimbor, it is all unlearned. 

For years, Maeglin taught himself not to need. By the end of a month, his desire rules him, utterly, and he needs Celebrimbor’s hand on the back of his neck, his gasps in Maeglin’s ear, his powerful thighs tight around Maeglin’s waist, as much as he needs breath, or food, or drink. 

By the end of that month, he is forgetting he needs even the last two in that list. 

“All I want to consume is you,” he whispers into Celebrimbor’s ear, as his cousin fists a hand in his hair and orders him,  _harder_. “All I want to drink is you, all I want to  _breathe_  is you…” 

He never talks this much. 

Celebrimbor stops the flow of words with a kiss, and murmurs, “Devour me, then.” 

Maeglin does. 

It is folly to grow so attached, he knows this. But his father’s whispers fade to blessed darkness in his head, and the ache of not-wanting/not-belonging/not-caring is brushed away by strong arms, wiped clear by the fall of dark hair over the stone floor, and drowned out by the moans that ring like hammer falls through his forge. If it is folly, then it is only fitting. Was not Maeglin’s very life was conceived in folly? 

And so he falls, and never looks back.


End file.
